Seasons of War

could also stay here.’
    Eiah knew she should have been tempted at least. The glow of old love and half-recalled sex should have wafted in her nostrils like mulled wine. He was still lovely. She was still alone.
    ‘I don’t think I could, Parit-kya,’ she said, switching from the formal to the intimate to pull the sting from it.
    ‘Why not?’ he asked, making it sound as if he was playing.
    ‘There are a hundred reasons,’ Eiah said, keeping her tone as light as his. ‘Don’t make me list them.’
    He chuckled and took a pose that surrendered the game. Eiah felt herself relax a degree, and smiled. She found her bag by the door and slung its strap over her shoulder.
    ‘You still hide behind that,’ Parit said.
    Eiah looked down at the battered leather satchel, and then up at him, the question in her eyes.
    ‘There’s too much to fit in my sleeves,’ she said. ‘I’d clank like a toolshed every time I waved.’
    ‘That’s not why you carry it,’ he said. ‘It’s so that people see a physician and not your father’s daughter. You’ve always been like that.’
    It was his little punishment for her return to her own rooms. There had been a time when she’d have resented the criticism. That time had passed.
    ‘Good night, Parit-kya,’ she said. ‘It was good to see you again.’
    He took a pose of farewell, and then walked with her to the door. In the courtyard of his house, the autumn moon was full and bright and heavy. The air smelled of wood smoke and the ocean. Warmth so late in the season still surprised her. In the north, where she’d spent her girlhood, the chill would have been deadly by now. Here, she hardly needed a heavy robe.
    Parit stopped in the shadows beneath a wide shade tree, its golden leaves lined with silver by the moonlight. Eiah had her hand on the gate before he spoke.
    ‘Was that what you were looking for?’ he asked.
    She looked back, paused, and took a pose that asked for clarification. There were too many things he might have meant.
    ‘When you wrote, you said to watch for unusual cases,’ Parit said. ‘Was she what you had in mind?’
    ‘No,’ Eiah said. ‘That wasn’t it.’ She passed from the garden to the street.
    A decade and a half had passed since the power of the andat had left the world. For generations before that, the cities of the Khaiem had been protected by the poets - men who had dedicated their lives to binding one of the spirits, the thoughts made flesh. Stone-Made-Soft, whom Eiah had known as a child with its wide shoulders and amiable smile, was one of them. It had made the mines around the northern city of Machi the greatest in the world. Water-Moving-Down, who generations ago had commanded the rains to come or else to cease, the rivers to flow or else run dry. Removing-the-Part-That-Continues, called Seedless, who had plucked the seeds from the cotton harvests of Saraykeht and discreetly ended pregnancies.
    Each of the cities had had one, and each city had shaped its trade and commerce to exploit the power of its particular andat to the advantage of its citizens. War had never come to the cities of the Khaiem. No one dared to face an enemy who might make the mountains flow like rivers, who might flood your cities or cause your crops to fail or your women to miscarry. For almost ten generations, the cities of the Khaiem had stood above the world like adults over children.
    And then the Galtic general Balasar Gice had made his terrible wager and won. The andat left the world, and left it in ruins. For a blood-soaked spring, summer, and autumn, the armies of Galt had washed over the cities like a wave over sandcastles. Nantani, Udun, Yalakeht, Chaburi-Tan. The great cities fell to the foreign swords. The Khaiem died. The Dai-kvo and his poets were put to the sword and their libraries burned. Eiah still remembered being fourteen summers old and waiting for death to come. She had been only the daughter of the Khai Machi then, but that had been enough. The Galts, who had taken every other city, were advancing on them. And their only hope had been Uncle Maati, the disgraced poet, and his bid to bind one last andat.
    She had been present in the warehouse when he’d attempted the binding. She’d seen it go wrong. She had felt it in her body. She and every other woman in the cities of the Khaiem. And every man of Galt. Corrupting-the-Generative, the last andat had been named.
    Sterile.
    Since that day, no woman of the cities of the Khaiem had